Quarantine
by RachelDalloway
Summary: What happens when Jack and Cal find themselves trapped together in a room for a few days.
1. Chapter 1

"What do you mean I have to share a room?" Cal demanded. "I asked for a private room!" Lisa, the head nurse, sighed heavily. She had only been at work for an hour, but it suddenly felt like much longer. "Yes, I know you did," she said, swallowing her irritation. "But this is a public hospital. We have to accommodate a lot of people in a small space, and we don't have the space to quarantine two people right now."

"So this guy has the same thing I do?" he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "You're quite sure about that? I'm not going to spend the next three days with him only to discover his doctor was a moron, and now I have some disgusting infection?"

"Sir that is not going to happen. Furthermore, if you don't like this hospital or its staff, you can always go somewhere else."

"If I could don't you think I would have?" he snapped.

"I don't know," she said, exasperated. "Would you?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her back as she walked away. "Doesn't anyone here realize who I am?" he muttered. "What the hell kind of place is this?" He would be damned if he ever set foot there again once they released him, or in any other hospital for that matter. From now on any medical treatment he received would take place in the comfort of his home. "And if the physician doesn't like it, well I'll just find another who does." Satisfied, he dropped his arms and leaned back against the pillows. The cheap, starched cotton pillowcase rubbed against his arms, inflaming the tiny red dots that covered his skin. He shifted his body in an attempt to find a position that wouldn't irritate his skin, but his efforts were in vain. If it wasn't his back or arms rubbing against the pillowcase, it was his chest and legs rubbing against the sheets. He grunted angrily and flopped onto his back. His head was beginning to spin; no doubt his fever had returned. _Just what I need,_ he thought a moment later, as the door flew open.

"I see your mood didn't improve while I was gone," Lisa chirped. He scowled at her. "Oh well, that's too bad. Your roommate is here."

"I told you I don't want a roommate," he said through clenched teeth.

"And I told you there's nothing to be done about it. So you may as well resign yourself to making the best of it." She turned toward the door. "Mr. Dawson, come in, would you please?" Cal's jaw dropped. A wave of horror washed over him as a tall blonde man stepped through the door. His clothes were well-worn but clean; his bright blue eyes laughed at him from behind a stray shock of hair. His mouth was curled in a slight grin. Under his right arm he carried an artist's portfolio and a blue leather-bound book. He wore a silver ring on his left hand.

"You?" he hissed. "They want me to share a room with _you_?" His face twisted. "I'd rather go back home and die of this wretched itching first!"

Jack's grin widened. "Then that's what you should do." He flopped onto the empty bed next to Cal's. He set his things on the small table between them and stretched out, putting his arms behind his head. "I mean it," he said. "If that's how you really feel you should go. I won't be hurt if you do."

Lisa regarded them with amusement. In the five minutes she had spent with Jack she had come to like him as much as she had come to dislike Cal in an hour. It was too bad he was married. His wife had been with him when she met him in the waiting room. At first she had been sure her eyesight was failing. Did people really have hair that red? It couldn't possibly be natural, could it? But her confusion about his wife's flaming curls had quickly evaporated in the flurry of questions she received from her. That she was worried about her husband was obvious to everyone in the room, and possibly even to some people who weren't.

"Rose, it's okay," Jack said soothingly. "It's just chickenpox."

"People die from just chickenpox," Rose pointed out.

"I didn't survive the North Atlantic to be killed by itching."

"Don't joke about it," she said quietly. "If it wasn't serious they wouldn't be putting you in quarantine."

"It's standard practice with adult cases," Lisa said. "It doesn't mean his case is necessarily a bad one."

"See?" Jack said. "I'll be fine." He ignored the command he had just received not to touch her and took both her hands in his. If she was going to get it, he reasoned, chances were she probably already had. Not that he wanted her to be sick, though a small, guilt ridden part of him almost wished she was because then she might be able to go with him. He kissed her fingertips. "I love you," he said softly. Rose smiled. "I love you too."

It was that smile that kept Jack grinning as he gazed over at Cal's scowling face. _It's only a few days,_ he told himself. _Just a few days, and at the end you'll be well again and can go home. _

_I wonder,_ Cal thought, _if I could smother him with a pillow without anyone hearing?_

**AN: It's a short beginning, but the next chapter will be longer. I don't intend for this to go beyond 3 chapters if I can help it. **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks for reviewing! As for how long after the sinking this is, that will be answered in this chapter. And I shall update everything else as soon as I can. **

It had been three hours since the nurse had locked them in, and Jack was starting to regret ever telling Rose he didn't feel well. If he'd kept his mouth shut, popped a few aspirin and—_And she would have noticed eventually anyway. How would you explain the rash? _He glanced down at himself. Thankfully, he wasn't covered in itchy red splotches yet. He was still in the early stages, which is why it was vital that he be quarantined—at least, that's what the doctor had said. Jack wasn't so sure he believed locking him in a room for a few days was the best thing to do, but that didn't matter. Rose believed it was best, and as far as he was concerned if she believed the best thing was for him to spend the next ten years hopping up and down on one foot that's what he would do. _Why couldn't I be doing that right now?_ he wondered. _Instead of __**this**__? _

_Stop that. It's not so bad. _

He glanced up from his book. Cal was lying on his side, facing him. He had one arm tucked under his head; his mouth was a thin, angry line. His dark eyes burned into him. "I never realized you enjoyed looking at me so much," Jack said dryly.

"I don't."

"Could've fooled me. You've been staring at me for just over an hour now."

Cal's face reddened slightly, more from disgust with himself than shame. It was fine to stare at Jack, to wonder how in the hell he had managed to stay alive, but it was something else entirely for Jack to know he was wondering such things. _Next thing I know he'll start thinking I'm impressed with his survival skills—as though he did anything any rat couldn't do. _ "What are you reading?" he snapped.

"Ask nicely and I might tell you."

Cal snorted and flopped over onto his back. "As if I wanted to know that badly." Jack shrugged. "Fine." Cal glanced over at him. He appeared to be completely engrossed in his book, and from what he could see he was about a third of the way through it. "That's a long book," he mumbled. Jack grunted in response. "Sure it isn't too much for you?" he added.

Jack's jaw tensed. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh nothing," Cal said innocently. "I just never realized you were such a good reader."

"Almost as good as you," Jack muttered. He wanted to say more but a little voice in his head told him not to. _It's what he wants. Just ignore it. _

Cal smiled to himself; irritating Jack had been even easier than he'd thought it would be. "No," he said. "I would imagine you aren't." His smile widened as Jack's grip on his book tightened. His knuckles were almost white. "I would imagine there are many ways in which you're not as good as me."

"I'm better than you at marrying redheaded women," Jack snapped. He regretted speaking the moment the words left his mouth. Not only had he let Cal know he was getting to him, but he'd brought Rose into it as well.

"You actually married her?" Cal sounded genuinely surprised. "Why in the hell would you do something like that?"

Jack laid his book down. "Because I love her. That's why, okay?" He grabbed his portfolio off the table and flipped it open. Reading was something Cal clearly wasn't going to let him do, but maybe he could lose himself in a drawing. He took a deep breath and searched for a blank sheet of paper. He found one at the very back just behind a drawing of Rose. It was the latest one; he had done it just the day before. He smiled and ran the tip of his finger across her face.

Cal stared at him, a slightly disgusted look on his face. "What the hell are you doing now?" Jack didn't answer. Cal arched his neck and leaned over in an attempt to see the paper, but Jack's arm blocked his view. "You're not in love with that paper too, are you?" he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm. Jack ignored him and pulled out the blank sheet. "Aww come on Dawson. Don't sulk. You look enough like a girl as it is."

Jack just sighed and removed a charcoal pencil and small knife from his portfolio. He carefully began to sharpen the pencil. "Why wouldn't I have married her?" he asked. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself.

"Because you didn't have to," Cal said simply.

Jack stared at him. "I'm going to need you to explain that one."

"Logic tough for you to follow?"

"Just explain what you meant!"

"You didn't have to," Cal repeated. "You already had everything." He gasped as Jack leapt off his bed and tackled him, knife in hand. _Maybe I went too far,_ he thought fearfully. "Don't you talk about her again, do you understand—" Jack's words were cut off by the sound of the door opening. Lisa walked in carrying a tray with four small cups on it. Jack and Cal both gaped at her; for a moment neither of them knew what to say.

She pushed the door closed with her foot. "Well, I see you two have been getting to know each other." She eyed Jack's knife wielding hand with interest. "And I see you don't like him any more than I do."

Cal grabbed Jack's arms. "Get off me you filthy thing!" he yelled, pushing him onto the floor. Jack swiped at him with the knife as he fell. "We already knew each other," he said, standing up.

"Unfortunately," Cal muttered.

"It wasn't all unfortunate" Jack said, sitting down on his bed. He closed the knife and put it back in his portfolio. A grin spread across his face. "I got a soul mate out of knowing you." Lisa set the tray down on the table between their beds. "Do you mean your wife?" she asked. "What was her name again?" She snapped her fingers. "Rose!" Jack nodded. "I mean her."

"How long have you been married?"

"Ten years. Since April of 1912."

Cal glared at them both. He muttered something underneath his breath—Jack wasn't sure but he thought he heard the word "kill"—and began to claw his arms. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," Lisa said, sounding as though she couldn't care less what he did. "And why is that?" Cal snapped. "Because scratching spreads them," she said. "And it causes scars. Did your doctor not already tell you that?"

Cal looked down at his arms. "He might have…"

Jack laughed. "But you weren't listening, right? You knew better, didn't you?"

"Shut up rat!"

"Don't call him that!" Lisa said angrily. She handed Cal one of the cups. "Take your pills," she ordered curtly. Jack pulled himself onto his knees and smiled at Cal over her shoulder. "She likes me better," he mouthed. Cal's face twisted with hatred. "I will get you!" he mouthed back. He turned up the cup; the dry pills stuck in his throat. He gagged and forced them down. "Why didn't you offer me water?" he demanded.

"Oh, did you want water?" Lisa asked. She handed Jack one of the other cups from the tray; it was filled with water. "Why didn't you say something?"

…

"Stop that!"

"Shut up!"

Cal turned over onto his side. "I'm trying to sleep! Stop it!" Jack didn't look up from his drawing. "It's five in the afternoon," he said. "Learn to sleep at a reasonable hour." Cal hurled a pillow at him. He moved back, and the pillow sailed right past him, missing him completely. It landed on the floor next to his bed. He reached down and picked it up. "Thanks. I needed another pillow."

"Give that back!" 

"You shouldn't have thrown it."

"No, I shouldn't have missed."

"You're right about that. It was an easy shot. You've got horrible aim. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Anyone ever tell you you're a worthless bum?"

Jack whistled. "I think I hit upon something with that aim comment. Whatsa matter? Your bad shooting make you less impressive to the other rich assholes?"

"I don't do my own shooting," Cal retorted. "I pay someone else to do it while I watch."

"Sounds fun. You get someone to do everything for you or just the things that don't involve hurting women?"

"Bastard!" Cal hurled his other pillow at him. Jack reached up and caught it as it passed over his head. "You must be feeling generous today," he said. "Giving me both your pillows?" Cal looked behind him. "Give those back!" he yelled.

"Sorry. Can't do that."

"Just like you couldn't give Rose back when you were finished with her?"

Jack's face was expressionless as he picked up the lamp on the table between them and flung it at Cal. It crashed into the wall next to him and shattered. Bits of glass covered the floor next to his bed. Cal stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "You—you—" he stammered, pointing a shaking finger at Jack. "You missed!" he finally managed to yell.

Jack turned back to his drawing. "Meant to. That was a warning. Talk about her again and see how good my aim is." Realizing he was already finished, he lifted the paper and blew the extra charcoal shavings off. He held it out in front of him and smiled at his creation. There it was in black and white, perfectly shaded and captured for all the world to see: Cal, his normally slicked down hair parted and in two pigtails tied with pink ribbons—at least the ribbons would have been pink if Jack had had his pastels to use—he was dressed in a tuxedo and riding a tricycle. His bottom lip was stuck out. "Yeah, that looks just like you," he said.

**AN: Credit for Jack's drawing of Cal goes to the brilliant JluckyJ. She came up with that image a few weeks ago, and I vowed to use it in a story one day. **


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I am so sorry it's taken so long for me to update this!**

"Stop that! Stop moving!" Cal yelled. Jack rolled over again, this time making sure the bed squeaked even louder than before. "Make me." Cal shot into a sitting position. "You think I won't?"

"No. I think you can't. Just like you can't take these pillows back." Jack fluffed the two pillows Cal had thrown at him earlier that day. "These are some nice pillows too. It's a shame you don't have them anymore."

"It'll be a shame when I kill you in your sleep," Cal spat.

"There's no chance of that happening," Jack said, turning over yet again. Cal's face twisted into a scowl as the bedsprings squeaked. "I won't get any sleep tonight." He moved his arm across the empty space next to him—the space where Rose was supposed to be. He closed his eyes. If he were at home they would be getting ready for bed. Rose would be brushing her hair, her dress half unbuttoned and threatening to slide off her shoulders. Across the room he would be doing his own undressing; occasionally he would sneak a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes she would acknowledge she saw him with a quick smile in the mirror.

But he wasn't there.

Jack clenched his teeth and twisted the sheets in his fingers. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with the chicken pox. _I'm sorry. Rosebud, I'm so sorry. _If only his mother had let him catch chicken pox as a kid like everyone else did. A loud cough followed by the sound of muttered swearing broke through his thoughts. He sighed. _Like almost everyone else did. _

He rolled over again. "I'm being quiet. What's wrong with you now?"

"Not that it's any of your business," Cal snapped. "But I have a cough."

"Why would you have a cough? We have the chicken pox."

"And?"

"Coughing isn't a symptom of the chicken pox," Jack said simply.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it—I'm not doing this!"

"Doing what? Being wrong? Too late."

"I'm not wrong!" Jack cried.

"Then why am I coughing?"

"I don't know," he said, exasperated. "And I don't care!" He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with pillows. _Rose, Rose, Rose, _he chanted silently.

"What do you think she's doing right now?" Cal asked a few minutes later.

Jack removed the pillows from his ears, but he didn't open his eyes. "Who?"

"As if you don't know."

"I don't know. I'm not the one who asked," he snapped. _You can ask about her all night, but I'm not telling you a damn thing. _Cal tapped his chin with his index finger. "I wonder if she's alone right now," he said softly. It was dark, but he was sure he could see Jack's body tense. He smiled to himself. "It isn't as though she has to be," he continued. "Beautiful woman like her—"

"Shut up!"

"I'm just making conversation," Cal said innocently. "I don't know what you're getting so upset about it." He sighed. "I guess that's just the way it is with your people."

"My people?" Jack shot up. "Who the hell are _my_ people?" Cal didn't answer. "Blonde guys? Artists?" He snapped his fingers. "You must be talking about guys who've married your former fiancées."

Cal's lips curled into a sneer. "I was talking about worthless vagabonds." He loudly sniffed. "I imagine she doesn't mind how little you bathe?"

"I bathe all the time," Jack chirped. "With her in the tub next to me." He felt guilty the moment the words left his mouth. _What is wrong with you? You knew that was what he wanted! _He sighed and laid his head in his hands. "Only two more days," he murmured to himself.

"What's that?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Well, there's no-one else here."

"Don't remind me," Jack grumbled, flopping back on the bed.

"Sounds like someone's missing a certain other someone," Cal said in a singsong voice. Jack considered throwing his book at Cal but decided against it. He was certain he could hit him even in the dark, but it just didn't seem worth it for some reason.

"Don't worry," Cal said. "I'm sure whomever she's found to replace you won't mind giving her up once you return. It isn't as though she's terribly extraordinary. I doubt she would even be—" His words were replaced by a shriek of shock and pain as Jack's book collided with his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Cal didn't bother Jack for the rest of the night, though he did tuck Jack's book under his mattress. "See how you like it," he muttered. He pulled the bedcovers up to his chin and rolled over so he was facing the wall.

Jack stared at the ceiling. His hands were folded on his chest. _God I wish I had a cigarette,_ he thought. His fingers twitched. It had been years since he'd smoked, but suddenly the craving was worse than ever. He grit his teeth. _Just don't think about it. Just go to sleep, and it'll be morning before you know it. _He pulled the sheets up to his chin and rolled onto his side. With a sigh he wrapped his arms around one of his pillows. It was no substitute for Rose.

….

"Well, I see you both survived," Lisa chirped. She set Jack's breakfast tray on his lap. "I added some extra fruit," she said not bothering to lower her voice. Jack smiled. "Thanks." She carelessly dropped Cal's tray onto the bed next to him. He scowled at the bowl of oatmeal and glass of water. "Is this all I get?"

"That's the standard breakfast," she said. He pointed at Jack, who was happily munching an orange. "What about him? Why doesn't he have this supposedly standard breakfast?"

"He does. That's the standard breakfast for patients of his type."

"What the hell does that mean?" Cal demanded. "The poor, worthless type?"

"Careful," Jack warned, biting into a fresh apple. "You won't get any lunch at the rate you're goin." Cal shot him a death glare. He grabbed his spoon and plunged it into the oatmeal. "It's just oatmeal," Jack said. "Can't be that bad."

"She's just sleeping with other men while you're gone," Cal said. "It can't be that bad." Jack's jaw tightened. "If I were you I'd be remembering what happened the last time you talked about her." Cal opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it. He took a bite of oatmeal instead.

…

"What are you drawing?" Jack grunted in reply; he didn't look up from his portfolio. "You don't have to be childish about it," Cal said condescendingly. "We both know what you're drawing. I was just trying to be courteous and ask." Jack's hands stopped moving. His shoulders tensed. Cal's lips turned up slightly at the corners. Jack swallowed the angry words that threatened to spill out of his mouth. He took a deep breath and began drawing again. Cal rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back.

A few minutes later the silence began to get to Cal. "It's her, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Jack asked, obviously irritated.

\

"What you're drawing. It's her, isn't it?"

Jack squeezed his pencil until his knuckles were white. The urge to leap off the bed and hit Cal until he agreed never to speak again was almost overwhelming. _What is wrong with me?_ he wondered, wiping charcoal dust on his pants. _I don't get angry like this normally. _But then again, normally he would be at home, and it would be Rose asking what he was drawing. _Not her bastard ex-fiancé who not only had me arrested but tried to kill us. Not to mention he hit her. _He closed his eyes; Rose's face was all he could see. _That's not how she'd want me to be. _

"Well?" Cal said impatiently. "Are you going to tell me? Or have you been so overwhelmed by your own genius you've been rendered incapable of speaking?"

"As a matter of fact, I was," Jack said, his cheerful tone betraying none of his real feelings. Cal's face twisted into a sneer. "That happen to you a lot?" Jack tapped his chin with his pencil. "No," he said pensively. "Only when I draw something truly extraordinary." He looked down at the paper. "Like this."

"Well, what the hell is it?" Cal demanded.

"Oh no, no," Jack said. "Can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"It's private. Stop bothering me."

"I bet it isn't even that good," Cal snorted. "You've see my work," Jack said calmly. "You should be able to judge that for yourself."

Cal didn't talk for a long time after that. He didn't even complain when Lisa brought Jack a steak dinner and him another bowl of plain oatmeal. He just picked up a spoon and ate it. At first Jack enjoyed the silence, but after Rose called and Cal still didn't say anything, he started to worry. Something wasn't right. Where was the obnoxious asshole he knew and hated? "Um….are you okay?" he asked, trying not to look over at Cal, who was slumped on his bed, his arms and legs hanging over the sides.

"What?" Cal grunted.

"Are you okay?" he asked again, the words coming out so fast even he wasn't sure what he'd said. Cal rolled his head to the side. "Do you care?" Jack folded his arms across his chest. "No. But this silence you've got going is annoying."

"So I'm bothering you?" Cal's eyes brightened slightly. "So if I stay silent until they let us out-"

"Oh, forget it!" Jack grabbed his book and flipped it open. "I don't want to hear your voice anyway. I don't care what you do." Cal folded his arms behind his head and smiled. "You care," he said.

"Shut up or I'll throw something at you again."


End file.
